Something Stupid
by Bleu
Summary: After a long, long time, this is yet another chapter of my Jack and Claire fiction. Read and review, and I'll love you forever.
1. My Shining Hour

**Something Stupid**

by Bleu

_who__ knows she does not own Jack, Claire, or any other Law and Order characters/places, but she enjoys playing with them so she hopes Dick Wolf won't mind!_

**[Part 1 - Afterglow]**

_"I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend the evening with me_…" were the lyrics struggling over the bristles of static and rumbling of washing machines in the East End Laundromat.

The muffled thumping of a younger blue-haired girl's portable tape player also added to the din, as well as the clinking of her multiple bracelets, and the rustling of the newspaper as a thick, round man who was seated on a suffering folding chair paged through, his fingers slick with ink. An elderly couple stood towards the back, entirely silent, immersed in a weekly ritual of folding their wash. They did it with such precision and discipline that even the least perceptive of an outsider knew it was an act they had performed since before their hair had grayed, their children had grown, and their bones had weakened.

All this, however, was lost on the final occupant of the dingy, yellow establishment. She had dark hair, secured on the top of her head with a dark pink band, falling around her face. Her sweatpants were baggy around her thin frame, and her tank top form-fitting. Her gray hooded-sweatshirt was draped around her, with the word Harvard printed across the front. She attacked a chicken Caesar salad with a vengeance as she tapped her tennis shoe against the rumbling washer, which was churning her work clothes in its inner sudsy sea.

As she poked with her plastic fork at a particularly questionable chunk of chicken, she decided that like the chicken, she had seen better days. She was usually an early riser on the weekends, but after last night her enthusiasm had been dampened to say the least. She hadn't woken until 11 (to nothing except an indented pillow), and there was so much wash lying around her bedroom floor (and living room floor and bathroom floor and hallway floor) that it read like a who's-who of business suit designers. So she had thrown on some sweats and collected the array into three baskets, which meant three trips down four floors of her apartment building to her tiny Toyota Tercel and three more back up to retrieve the other baskets.

Now, as she sat on the lid of a dryer, Claire Kincaid tossed the black plastic plate into a nearby garbage can with a disgusted flick of her hand.

This cloud of misery she had hovering over her head was immature, childish nearly. She wasn't a young, naïve teenager. This mistake was something that needed to be moved past, not dwelled upon; after all, if she made a big deal about it, it would only magnify the original mistake.

_That isn't what's bothering you, _her inner voice told her as she paged through the latest edition of _Cosmopolitan_. It held nothing more than glossy pictures of perfect models and lists of erotic turn-ons, neither of which gave her much motivation to stick with it. She pushed it aside and stood restlessly, nearly stepping on Blue Hair's toes, but it didn't disturb the teen in the least.

With an unconscious move of her hand to push away a stray lock of hair, Claire dug into her pocket for 35 cents. It was then—as she plucked the nickel and quarter from the lint collection that came up with them—that she noted the song that fought bravely with the static. With a rather ungraceful snort, she moved towards the pay phone.

"…_and afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two_…" Sinatra sang.

With a frustrated clank, she put the pay phone back down and listened to her change rattle its way down the metallic shoot. _What would you say to him, anyway, Kincaid?_ she thought sardonically. _"I'm sorry I actually expressed feelings. I know it's against your rules of conduct…" yeah, that will really win him over_. She bit her tongue.

It wasn't the fact that she had said what she had said that upset her, although her rashness made her stomach sting with disapproval. It was more his reaction, she realized, that had her pawing her way through a self-pitying blanket.

Sinatra finished his melodic ballad:

"…_and_ _then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like "I love you"_…"

When the timer on her washing machine announced itself, she blinked back angry tears and busied herself with the transfer of her first load to the dryer and her second load to the washing machine.

_What fool_, she thought fleetingly as a rocky tune began to thump in the speakers, _would actually assume that Jack McCoy would say "I love you" back to them?_

**A/N: Okay, I thought up this fic after watching the Law and Order episode "Homesick". It's just a little beginning, I actually hope to continue, so if it's too horrible to warrant a second part (featuring my favorite, Jack) let me know through reviews! If you like it (hopefully) and/or have some tips, let me know through reviews and/or e-mail. Either way, PLEASE review. This is my first Law and Order fic. Thanks!**


	2. The Wall

Something Stupid

By Bleu

_…who understands she does not own Jack, Claire, or any other Law & Order characters/places, but she enjoys playing with them so she hopes Dick Wolf won't mind too much._

**[Part 2 – The Wall]**

"_All in all, it was just another brick in the wall_…"

Syd Barrett murmured the melancholy, nearly sorrowful lyrics once again in refrain as the sound faded from the speakers. It was time for the next song. Another snapshot of the writer's mind and soul on a certain day, put to instruments. That was how he'd always seen music. Not solely entertaining, as much as it was sometimes, but as a way to understand people outside his realm of familiarity.

As he closed the storage compartment of his well-kept, prized Harley, he looked East, against the blazing sun, to see if the source of the music was to be known. It was. A middle aged man, possibly early forties, sitting in mid-sized Ford at a nearby red light, apparently testing out his sound system's capabilities, sans a spouse or child, sure to sneer at the volume and choice of the tune.

He was just about that man's age, and he was sure the melody brought back similar memories of a time when he was in the limbo of post-childhood but pre-adulthood, trying to decide which was more preferable. Jack McCoy was often questioned, often lately, as to whether or not he had ever totally _left_ that state of mind.

_Your actions last night haven't exactly worked in your defense. _His inner, critical voice, respectfully dubbed Adam, told him. Jack shook off the thought, and started towards his car. The Harley would not cut it today, with highs only expected to be 45, no sir. He sighed, as he realized that he must be getting old if he's turning down his Harley for other modes of transportation when the weather dipped below 60.

It was only a 45-minute trip, at best, once he cleared the congested streets of Manhattan. And yet, the suburbia that his brother had nestled himself in with his wife and children seemed like an entirely different universe.

Secure houses, with locks and doorbells that rang to the tune of a nursery rhyme. Open back yards, with pools and trampolines. A dog that was pedigreed and tame. A two-story colonial house, with a room for each child and one for the loving parents. Plenty of extra space for visiting relatives. An asphalt driveway never quite clean of children's play chalk.

Yes, it was the life Paul Patrick McCoy had chosen. This, in comparison to his older brother John James, who even while participating in the arena of married life had never owned a minivan or had a mortgage. He and his wife had shared a 5-room apartment way out of their means, with only room for them and their daughter, Laura. They had also no back yard, but Laura had been content playing in Central Park, much larger than any yard her cousins could compare. There pet had been a goldfish named Elvis, who was buried in a small grave on the West side of Central Park, the toothpick grave marker long gone.

As Jack settled into the driver's seat of his royal blue Chevrolet Monte Carlo, he took a breath, watched the vapor settle on the windshield. Despite the intensity of the sunlight and the fact it was the middle of spring, the weather was bitter.

He turned on the car and listened to the mechanics click into place, and the heater roar to life. He moved the car slowly from the parking garage below his apartment, and settled behind a black, gas-guzzling SUV, the middle aged man and his Ford and his Pink Floyd long gone.

"_Another snapshot in a family album_…" Even without the recorded version, Jack knew the tune well and sang it softly in the closed space of his car. Only a three people—his ex-wife, his daughter, and recently Claire—had ever heard him sing.

Kathy's opportunity had been a soft murmur in her ear, at their wedding, as they swayed to "Your Song" by Elton John. Laura's had been each night for the first 7 years of her life as she drifted to sleep. And Claire's…well, hers had begun as an accident.

He had been in the shower, one morning before work, taking an unusually slow time about it. It had been near the beginning of their relationship, one of the first nights they had ever spent together. It was his apartment, so his comfort level was steady, and he hadn't heard her come in and begin brushing her teeth, so he had begun singing a catchy pop song he'd heard on the radio, "Breakfast at Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something, whom at the time he had never heard of. He was not familiar with the song, as he only knew the chorus, but that didn't stop some soulful vocalizing.

He hadn't even known she was listening, that is until she giggled.

Frozen, mid-washing and singing, Jack raised an eyebrow.

"Claire?"

"Took a little creative license, I see." She replied, and he pushed the curtain around so he could see her, hair halfway to its normal coif, wearing one her button up shirts, smiling with a bit of toothpaste on her chin.

"I can't help it if you can't understand what the singer is saying." He rationalized, pushing some suds out of his face. She giggled again, not in an annoying childish way, but in a cute, adoring way. He took her arm and pulled her over to the shower, unbuttoning that prissy shirt she wore.

If he recalled correctly, they had both been late for work that day.

With a distracted tap on the gas, Jack's car glided forward and maneuvered through the light traffic. Chilly Saturdays inspired most native New Yorkers to snuggle up in their beds until at least noon. Jack envied them. As much as he loved weekend visits to Paul's house, being curled into a bed with Claire was at the moment a preferred situation.

_But you've done a nice job of lousing that up, haven't you? _"Adam" said again. Jack shook his head. He hadn't meant, by God, to hurt Claire. She had just…caught him off guard. Yes, off-guard, that's all. But when does that sort of thing ever occur when you're _on-guard_? Never. Life wasn't kind like that.

He tried to push through the muddle that was the events of last night.

There had been tension. Tension at dinner. It was the Mickey Scott case. Briscoe and Curtis were closing in on an arrest, and Adam (the literal one, not Jack's conscience) had made it clear that the public wanted to see an execution, and he wanted to get it by using Jack as his lead prosecutor.

They had been together for nearly 2 years. They talked about work outside of it, but they usually didn't let problems from work contaminate their personal lives. Only one case before, the Sandig trial, had succeeded in a few nighttime battles. But this Scott case was already causing rifts between them, and it wasn't on his docket. Yet.

So yes, there had been tension. Tension, pasta, and wine. Yes, wine. Wine for Claire, not him. The stuff was too sugary for Jack. He preferred the sharp, cough-syrupy taste of liquor. He hadn't done so in great excess at first, but a double shot of whiskey twice during dinner had begun the slow progression. She normally didn't mind if he drank. She'd been known to put away a few shots of Grey Goose at times. But that night, she seemed a little saddened.

But they had still gone back to her apartment. Probably because it was closest to the restaurant and he wouldn't let her drive, despite his state. Either way, he had a cloudy remembrance of leaning against the wall outside her apartment while she dug for her key.

Had they made love right away? He didn't think so. He remembered having coffee. Not the small, delicate cup from the restaurant, full of water. Strong, dark coffee from her pot, in a wide cup with flowers on it.

That's when they made love. After coffee. She hadn't had any, because he remembered the sugary whisper of the wine in her mouth when they kissed. Afterwards was the fight. It was a fight he knew, not just a debate, because he remembered her crying. Not the gasping, romance-movie, bosom-heaving sobs, but there had been tears in her eyes and on her face.

The very memory of it stung his chest as he finally reached the George Washington Bridge. What had the fight been about? For the life of him, he couldn't remember. It would not have mattered, in the end. He had been drunk. A fight over spoiled orange juice could become nasty.

He wished he wasn't handling this hangover so well. It felt like he deserved more of a headache, more dry-mouth, and more memory of the night before and his own behavior. His mind was foggy as to the many aspects of the night, but one thing was dead certain.

Claire had told him she loved him, and he had not said a word.

"_…all in all, it's just another brick in the wall…_"

**A/N: Okay, I wrote the first part of this fic in August…nearly 8 months ago. I thank those of you who reviewed before for your encouragement and for not giving up on me, even though I took somewhat of a hiatus. I hope you enjoy this part, too. I just love working with Jack and Claire, particularly him because he has so many depths to work with…and you can tell its ****1:38 am**** when I'm talking this way about a television character…Anyway, many thanks, and reviews are appreciated! **


	3. From Here to Eternity

**Something Stupid**

by Bleu

_who knows she does not own Jack, Claire, or any other Law and Order characters/places, but she enjoys playing with them so she hopes Dick Wolf won't mind!_

**Part 3- Indecision**

"_Should I stay or should I go?_" the demand from the lead singer of The Clash boomed from the speakers of Claire's radio as she dabbed the top of her big toe with a bit of gold sparkling nail polish.

It was a rote activity that offered a peculiar kind of comfort when she was brooding at a time like this—plus she had a serious love of painting her toe nails. No one in court or at the office ever saw them, or probably even imagined the conservatively dressed, serious ADA would have "sexy siren red" just underneath her sensible shoes, so they became a kind of secret of hers, a joke on the rest of the unknowing world.

"_It's always tease, tease, tease…_"

As she leaned back and waited for the gold to dry, she remembered the first time Jack had noticed.

It had been the first night they'd been together. They'd been doing the flirting dance at the office—whether she admitted it at the time or not—since about a month after he came, which had graduated to "business" dinners late at night at which they would manage to talk about everything but. And then—inevitable, Jack would say—it had happened.

The "it" itself had been like a dream. Claire was not a virgin, but she acknowledged mentally how she was trembling when he kissed her, and how she had hardly been able to untie his tie. But when she had, and he stood before her with his collar undone, his hair mussed, and his eyes dark, she expected passion almost to the point of fierceness.

But once again, he shocked the hell out of her.

"Relax," he said softly, lightly brushing her hair out of her face. He then cupped it delicately, like it was porcelain, and then ran his hands down her arms so he could take her hands. "Sit down."

Before she realized it, he had led her down a hallway and she was, on the edge of his wide, white bed, with the dusky sun rays already lying across it.

He knelt in front of her, watching her, and then laughed softly.

"Are you laughing at me?" she managed, as he was running his hands up and down her calves.

"Maybe…or maybe I just can't believe I'm touching your legs. I've thought about them quite a bit," he teased, and then eased off one of her shoes as she smiled. At that, he stopped.

"What's the matter?" she asked, sad he had ceased his leg-worship. He had stooped his head, and was examining her toes.

"What color is that?" he had asked, almost like an awestruck child as he ran a finger along her toes.

She craned her neck, noted the shiny, deep purple, and self-consciously, she replied, "Um, I think it's called "plum crazy"."

She raised an eyebrow as he continued staring. "Do you like it?"

After a moment, he nodded and looked up.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat, and shifted. "…incredibly sexy. Not too frilly, but feminine. And tough. Like you."

She smiled—now that she thought about it, much like a girl—and blushed that one of her favorite colors was being so complimented. "Well, thank you."

Since then, "plum crazy" had a special place in her jewelry box, and was only broken out for special occasions.

Wanting to completely immerse herself in ancient history and also knowing the danger, Claire snapped her head up at the ringing of her phone.

"_If I go there will be trouble and if I stay it will be double…_" pounded from the stereo and nearly drowned out the voice on the other line, which Claire secretly hoped was Jack.

"Hello?" she asked for a second time, fumbling with the radio volume dial.

"Claire? Claire is that you? What the hell is that in the background?" the voice inquired, entirely too female to be Jack and entirely too distinct to belong to anyone except Margot, her best friend.

"Yeah, Margot, it's me. What's up?" she asked, dropping into one of her achy, mismatched kitchen chairs.

"Oh nothing. I'm in dire need of some spring or summer clothes, but lacking the money to acquire said needs. So I'm going to go vintage shopping today—want to come?" She asked over the din of what Claire assumed was traffic. Vintage shopping was a habit acquired by Claire and Margot in college and law school to save money that became more of a nostalgic hobby now that they could afford clothing.

"Margot, its 40 degrees outside today. You won't need those clothes for at least a month!" She didn't know why she brought it up when she knew she'd end up going with Margot.

"Look, Claire, I'm trying to plan for the future—you know that thing I'm so horrible at? So are you going to help me out, or tempt me to slip back into my procrastinating ways so that I don't shop for summer _until_ summer, at which time greedy, opportunistic little merchants will charge me ungodly prices for mediocre, left-over styles that only accent my oddly shaped thighs?"

Because Margot was entirely serious, Claire had to laugh.

"Of course I'll meet you. Where and when?"

"Actually…" a door slammed. "I'm standing in front of your apartment building."

With a chuckle, Claire got up from the chair and stuck her head out of the open window and looked down into the bustling 73rd street. There, with a cellular phone in hand, was Margot's dirty blonde head. She waved.

"And what if I wasn't home or had other plans?" Claire inquired, waving as Margot did and watching as an annoyed biker veered around her.

"I would have waited for hours on your doorstep. Are you coming?"

Twenty minutes later, they were filling tiny, curtained-off cubicles with their first loads of old designer jeans, quirky tee shirts, and just plain odd outfits.

As Claire peeled her tank top over her head to try on a potentially over-the-top shirt, Margot's voice floated up over the thin partition.

"So…what's been bothering you?"

There was a saying that a best friend can see you walk in with a smile and know something is wrong. At that moment, Claire cursed it.

"Noth…well, nothing critical." She lied as she snapped the pearl snaps on the shirt shut. Yes, over-the-top was only scratching the surface.

"Oh, please, Claire! You barely spared _two pairs _of ass-hugging jeans an appreciative glance, even though together they would have cost you fifteen dollars!" out of disbelief, Margot thrust the curtain open and revealed herself in a form-fitting school-bus-yellow dress.

As Claire forced her head through a Queen concert tee shirt, she giggled.

"I'm sorry, but if we're going to have a heart-to-heart you're going to have to take that off." Margot looked down, pulled at the fabric a bit, and nodded.

"You're right. Big Bird had more class than this." She pulled the curtain closed, but continued talking.

"But seriously Claire—_something_ is darkening your nicely shaped brow. What is it?"

With a sigh at her own childishness about to be made vocal, Claire sat back in the rickety chair.

"I'm in love with Jack." Margot was one of the few—hell, the _only_ person that Claire actually told about Jack. Everyone else just assumed correctly.

"Well, I could have told you that."

"That's not it though." She sighed, and ran her hands through her hair. "I've known for a while, too. And I've been planning—well not planning…or maybe it was planning? No, I don't think so. I'm not into melodrama. I guess I've just been _thinking about _how I would tell him for a few weeks." She pushed air out in a contemptible sigh. "And last night, the worst possible time, _during a fight _no less…I did."

The curtain opened, but with less fervor, and revealed Margot in transition of changing, with her cotton camisole just as obvious as her curious sympathy.

"And?"

Claire snorted ruefully. "And what. Nothing. He just left. He was in the doorway leaving when I said it, and I know he heard me, but he just kept walking, and shut the door behind him…" With that, a tear dove from her eye, missing her face and landing on the lap of her jeans. "God, I'm such an idiot."

"No!" Margot said forcefully. "You're not an idiot Claire. I'll tell you who is. Jack McCoy. To have you loving him and just blow it off? What an asshole." She was fuming now, her color flushed in defense of her friend.

"No, no, Margot, this is me. I'm sure it is. After all, what did I expect? He has more affairs than there are cases on the Manhattan dockets. Why did I think I'd be any different?" she demanded, angrier with herself.

"Because you _are, _Claire."

"But am I? Am I _really_? I told myself I was, but we were only working together two months before I just _fell _into bed with him. Maybe I'm not as strong as I thought. Maybe I'm just another notch…"

"Okay, stop!" Margot demanded, their conversation becoming peek-worthy as other shoppers walked a little slower and listened a little harder when they walked by. "I won't have you here, blaming yourself. You're an adult woman. He's a charming, handsome adult man, with whom you happen to be engaged in a two-year, active sexual relationship. These feelings are natural—in fact, some people are thrilled when they realize it. _He's _the one acting like a child, here, not you."

Claire let this sink in. "You know, maybe you're right. But that doesn't solve my problem. Should I bring it up? Should I pretend it never happened? God, how can I just move past this?"

A heavily tattooed and pierced teen walked by, and nearly tripped from all her rubber-necking. Margot snapped the curtain shut and sat next to Claire.

"I think that's up to you. If you don't, then it will be easy for him and things will probably stay status quo. If you do, then he will either say it back, or break your heart. It's about what you're willing to risk."

Claire leaned her head against the wall.

On one hand, she had Jack as he was and had been for the past two years, status quo. At work, a gifted lawyer and intelligent man. At play, a fun friend and wonderful lover. All this had made the last two years the fullest of her adult life.

And on the other hand, she had the unknown. If he said he loved her, and things went farther with Jack, where exactly would they go? Would they get married? Did she _want _to be married right now? A lot of questions and not so many answers.

And sticking in the back of her mind, giving her stomach a hot, sick feeling, was the outcome of him not reciprocating her love. Even if they maintained their relationship, it would eventually become unbearably heavy because of her acknowledged feelings. And if they didn't…she couldn't imagine.

"My God," she said audibly. "I can't…imagine my life without him. It was never, ever like this before. I'm considering swallowing my own feelings because I'm so afraid to lose him. Margot what have I become?"

Margot just shook her head and put up her hands.

"Sweetheart, it's love. That is, after all, the only thing that would render someone like you helpless. But don't look at it as swallowing your feelings. Just…putting them on hold."

Claire sighed once again. "I guess it's best—for now."

Margot patted Claire's knee. "And if eventually he doesn't come around, we'll just wait until he's asleep and…" at the look on Claire's face, Margot smiled wickedly. "Am I being vengeful and exacting again?"

"Just a little."

**Author's Note: I started this story almost two years ago, and as you can see, I have deplorable work ethic. I would just like to apologize sincerely to those who think I abandoned them consciously—I didn't! And also, there is more to come, hopefully sooner than a year from now. In fact, I'm dedicating myself to it. Anyway, if you feel the need to criticize or praise or just chat about anything, do so via reviews or emails. I love it all. Thanks! Bleu**


End file.
